


Gorge

by RenGoneMad



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Uzumaki Kushina, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Happy Birthday Hatake Kakashi, Hatake Kakashi Has Issues, Hatake Kakashi-centric, KakaIru Week 2020, Kakashi Week 2020, M/M, POV Hatake Kakashi, Pining, Self-Harm, She and Minato do their best, There's A Tag For That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenGoneMad/pseuds/RenGoneMad
Summary: It wasn't too difficult for Kakashi to ensure he was in Konoha every September fifteenth. Unlike ANBU, jōnin's lives weren't controlled every minute of every day.Kakashi almost wished they were.Then he would have an excuse to stop the self-destructive cycle.
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi & Namikaze Minato, Hatake Kakashi & Uzumaki Kushina, Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka
Comments: 16
Kudos: 218
Collections: KakaIru Week 2020, Kakashi Week 2020





	Gorge

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** References to canonical character death and **self-harm** relating to food. ( **Please see the end-notes if you would like further details on this to see if you wish to continue reading. <3**)
> 
> Yo! This is for Kakashi's birthday, and fills the Birthday prompt for KakaIru Week aaaaand the Birthday prompt for Kakashi Week~ 
> 
> Absolutely humongous thanks once again to booleanWildcard for the beta. You make everything you touch better. <3

The Hokage’s mansion should have projected strength, what with its imposing height and roundness, its exterior as red as arterial spray, its status as home of the strongest shinobi of the strongest hidden village on the strongest continent. (Or, at least, the strongest shinobi as dictated by the diplomatic interests of the council that appointed them. People frequently omitted that part of the equation.)

The cozy interior—filled with patchwork quilts and family photographs and disturbingly large collection of porcelain bull figurines—was anything but impressive, however.

Also unimpressive was the pungent scent of burning garlic that a draft of hot air carried from the kitchen to Kakashi’s location. Actually, perhaps it _was_ impressive; it had managed to travel up a floor and against a northern breeze on its quest to aggressively sting his nostrils.

One more month until Kushina would give birth—maybe even less. The figurines were already moved to the highest shelves, the bookcases secured to the walls, the nursery prepared; the baby could potentially come any day now. Kakashi hoped it would have Minato’s temperament, otherwise his ears would be ringing with every cry.

Not that Kakashi was planning to be wandering around their house at that point; he was still ANBU. Once the kid was born, he would be back on the difficult missions: tracking, espionage, assassination. 

Mostly the latter. 

Minato had initially tried to put him on easier tasks—well, easier in _his_ opinion. Things that he thought would allow Kakashi the sort of emotional and mental rest he supposedly needed.

Kakashi disagreed. Not that he enjoyed assassination—there was nothing pleasurable about taking a person’s life, even less so when the sharingan recorded every moment in picture-perfect clarity, ready to be repeated during his most vulnerable moments—but it wasn’t worse than what Kakashi had already been through. After Rin, Kakashi was well-versed in scars. There was no reason to mar another shinobi when Kakashi could keep any mental wounds he sustained from cutting through bone.

Guarding Kushina was a new sort of responsibility. It was calm, peaceful. He spent a majority of the time in air conditioning and knew he would be able to sleep in a bed each night (Kakashi wasn’t needed when Minato was home, after all). He did rounds, checked entry points, reinforced wards. The tangy scents he sometimes caught were more likely canned tomatoes than blood, though his thoughts automatically jumped to the latter.

That wasn’t to say that he could let his guard down, of course; there were always dangers, and the simple fact that Kakashi had been set to guard her was evidence enough of that. Few knew that Uzumaki Kushina was the Kyuubi’s jinchuuriki, and fewer still knew about her pregnancy. It needed to stay that way.

Keeping watch for unnecessary visitors was part of Kakashi’s job. The best location for that was the roof one floor above the kitchen, which looked out over the front entrance and, if he craned his neck, gave him a view of the side door and many of the windows as well. 

That strategic perch was why he heard every word Kushina said as she cooked. 

“The key is to not get the eggplant too done.” Kushina said, words ringing clearly, bouncing off the walls towards Kakashi’s sensitive ears. It was louder than she should have been if she were speaking only to herself—but then again, she was always louder than Kakashi would prefer, although the actual _content_ of her speech was normally much more worthwhile to listen to than Guy’s flowery prose. “A little browning is good, but you can’t let it get overcooked before you put it in the soup. Then the eggplant dissolves into the miso and all that’ll be left is skin, you know?”

She had been going on about that for a while. While no one could ever call the Red-Hot Habanero a house-wife, she had a plethora of hobbies, and they seemed to increase in number each week. Cooking, painting (although it was highly questionable _what_ exactly her splatters were meant to be, and Kakashi knew better than to ask)—she’s even attempted homemade soaps on one disastrous afternoon. The main task that Minato kept for himself was cleaning, as Kushina tended to break mirrors and dishes alike when she scrubbed with too much enthusiasm. 

Today’s commentary was new, though. She often tried to rope Kakashi into conversations, but she normally made an attempt to break the one-sided communication barrier. Perhaps she had finally given up and recognized that his interpersonal prowess best extended to the relative merits of wakizashi and kodachi. Kakashi hadn’t expected her to yield. She could take a hint better than Guy, but they were equal degrees of stubborn.

Kushina wasn’t made for isolation. He saw it in her increasingly desperate struggles to find meaningful pastimes. He saw it in the few days she ceded the fight, the days that Kakashi had to intrude on her privacy by glancing in through her bedroom window every so often, because otherwise he could hardly tell she was alive. It made sense that she would try to establish some personal connection, even with someone like Kakashi— 

—or perhaps not him after all.

He had tried to indulge her, or at least not be actively rude. While he didn’t know her well initially, she was his sensei’s wife, his sensei’s most precious person; even without an official mission, Kakashi would have given up his life in an instant to protect hers. 

As he should have done for Obito. 

As he should have done for Rin. 

The fact that the man had trusted Kakashi with Kushina’s safety, after Obito, after Rin… his sensei was too forgiving. Even if it were naivete, or guilt, or simply a bleeding heart (and didn’t Kakashi hate that phrase), it didn’t lessen the responsibility placed on Kakashi’s broadening shoulders.

He would not fail Minato again. 

“So, you also want to add it to the soup after the other flavors have melded.” Metal clanged against metal, probably her ladle scraping the sides of the pot. “You need to give it enough time to absorb the miso, but not too much. Oh, and make sure the pan is hot before you put anything in, otherwise it’ll stick.” 

She wasn’t the best teacher. She tended to repeat herself. 

“Grate the ube fine enough that you won’t get any lumps, but don’t overwork it or you’ll build up the starches! Or break them down? Something like that.”

Kakashi released a heavy breath, shoulders drooping as his annoyance escaped with the sigh. Uncrossing his legs, Kakashi grabbed hold of the rim of the roof and swung in through the open window. He landed soundlessly; Kushina’s back was turned, but he knew she noticed him all the same. 

The temperature had risen by several degrees due to the rising steam from the multiple pots and pans cluttering the stove. Kakashi hadn’t pieced together most of the actual dishes she was making, but all four burners were occupied and the oven light was on. Used cutting boards and mixing bowls stood haphazardly beside the sink, waiting for Minato’s calmer hands. 

Apparently, she was preparing a feast. 

“You don’t need to teach me how to cook.” Kakashi informed her, leaning against a wall where he could easily see the windows and doors. Kushina glanced at him and nonchalantly reached up to readjust her ponytail. Frizzy crimson strands stuck out, sticking to her neck and forehead with humidity. 

“I’m not!” Kushina batted a hand dismissively in his direction. Her voice and the way that she didn’t turn to face Kakashi made him believe that she was trying and failing to suppress a smile. “I’m just talking to myself. It’s not my fault if you listen, you know.” 

Kakashi held back another sigh. Kushina probably sensed it, because she chuckled before starting on another culinary tirade regarding cooking times for various vegetables. Slowly, the scents started to shift from garlic and oil to cooking meat and soybeans. 

Kakashi would never admit that his stomach growled, and his mask hid any flush that Kushina’s bright laugh might have brought to his cheeks.

Escaping to the roof was a relief. The autumn air helped to cool his skin.

When Minato made it home, Kakashi was still on his perch, listening to the dwindling commentary that streamed through the window as Kushina began to finish some of the dishes. The Hokage waved at Kakashi with a smile as bright as his wife’s.

Kakashi inclined his head, but didn’t move. His duty didn’t end until Minato dismissed him. 

It didn’t truly end even then, but Kakashi could admit that sleeping each night did wonders for his reaction time. 

Minato entered the kitchen.

Kakashi didn’t like listening in on Kushina and Minato’s private conversations. Not out of any sense of propriety—it just made his chest ache and a curious jitter settle in his gut. Maybe that _was_ guilt and Kakashi just didn’t know how to recognize it in such a trivial situation.

He surveyed the grounds, taking in the skyline of Konoha. Buildings cut into the skyline like crooked teeth, but somewhere beyond those—and sprinkled through their midst, for those who cared enough to look—were signs of life. Leaves were just beginning to soften into golds and reds as autumn swept over the landscape, animal coats growing thick and dense in preparation for harsher times to come.

The sun hadn’t quite set when there was a knock on the outside of the wall. Kakashi stiffened, slowly leaning to peer over the edge, gloved hand already on his kunai. 

Minato’s head was stuck out the window, yellow hair dyed orange by the light of the fading sun. He curled his fingers invitingly when he caught Kakashi’s eye. 

Kakashi relaxed his grip. He stuck to the walls with chakra and politely stepped in through the window rather than jumping.

The first thing he noticed was that the table was set—for three people. 

They were having company. 

“Kakashi, take a seat.” Minato said happily, scooting his own chair in. 

Oh. The company was Kakashi.

Had he done something wrong? No, surely Minato would have taken him aside in private, wouldn’t have scolded his student in front of someone else, wife or not. Perhaps there were changes to the Hokage’s schedule that would necessitate a rotation in Kakashi’s shift.

Kushina took it upon herself to be a bit more abrupt. “Sit.” She commanded. 

Kakashi sat. 

His face burned, though he couldn’t tell why. It was no longer overheated inside, the encroaching evening circulating cool air through the open windows. 

Did they need him to stay overnight? If there had been a credible threat against Kushina’s life, Minato would have told Kakashi himself. 

Wouldn’t he? 

Yes. It was procedure.

“Dig in.” Kushina said, but she grabbed Kakashi’s plate herself, serving him heaping amounts of each dish. 

For the first time, Kakashi put names to the dishes he had learned in pieces.

Salt-broiled saury with roasted zucchini. Miso soup with eggplant. Steamed rice. Some sort of egg dish that looked vaguely like tamagoyaki, but he knew was actually layered pastry filled with ground pork and thinly shredded vegetables. The Red-Hot Habanero hadn’t gone weak on spice; Minato’s ears reddened as he tried unsuccessfully to hide coughs. 

Kushina smiled at Kakashi like it was an inside joke they were sharing. 

Kakashi’s face burned worse than Minato’s. 

The couple didn’t seem to have business on their minds—or, if they did, they decided it was none of Kakashi’s. They chattered about the village, Minato filling Kushina in on gossip to which she was no longer privy, due to her house-bound state. Occasionally they asked Kakashi questions on his opinion, and mostly Kakashi had none. He answered with the shortest sentences possible. 

Chopsticks clattered, and Kakashi was overly aware of the weight of his mask. He replaced it after each bite. Minato and Kushina looked only at each other for the majority of the meal, giving Kakashi freedom of exposure that he didn’t accept—but even without looking, their attention was focused on Kakashi. 

Sweat soaked into his gloves. His attention flickered to the windows and entry points. Minato never did the same. 

Kakashi wanted to leave.

He didn’t know how to be part of this puzzle. 

Eventually, Minato turned the conversation to Kakashi’s perfection of chidori. 

When that led to his use of the sharingan, Kushina was the one to cut the somber silence. Her chair legs scraped softly against the tiles. Kakashi’s plate was the only one clean.

“Time for the cake!” 

From the refrigerator, Kushina pulled a perfectly round plate with a short disc in the center. It was brown all around, but Kakashi could see hints of purple peeking through beneath the outer layer. It was slightly disconcerting, as was the way it jiggled as she placed it in the center of the table. Minato rushed to move a glass out of the way before she knocked it over. 

“Ah, well.” She laughed self-consciously, resting her hands on her hips. “It’s more of a custard, actually! Minato said you aren’t fond of sweet foods, so I figured ube might fit your tastes better than a traditional birthday cake, you know?”

Kakashi stopped breathing. 

He shuffled through days in his mind. He had only tracked dates in order to keep in mind when the baby would arrive—how preemie it might be if it came early, its chances of survival if something happened—

—but there was no mistaking it. That day was September fifteenth. 

Kakashi’s fourteenth birthday. 

He didn’t realize how tightly his fingers had clamped around his chopsticks until his knuckles ached when he set them down. 

He looked at the feast with new eyes, the spread of dishes on the table—all savory, salty, umami. Fresh vegetables, fish, spice. 

Kushina taught him how to make his favorite foods. 

Kakashi’s throat closed. 

The custard was mild, but the sugar burned his tongue more than spice ever had.

* * *

When he walked home that night, belly full and chest aching, even the dawning of autumn could not cool the warmth in his bones.

It was the first birthday gift he had received in seven years. 

It was the last one he received for eighteen more. 

Twenty-five days after that, Kakashi once again failed to protect those who trusted him with their lives. 

He wouldn’t fail again, though, not after this; there was no one left to protect. 

* * *

If Minato had been blocked by sentimentality from realizing Kakashi’s best utilization, then Sarutobi Hiruzen held no such compunctions. Kakashi spent the next ten years of his life neck-deep in blood and corpses. Days ceased to have meaning beyond the parameters of the mission.

Yet somehow—when the breeze turned cool and leaves began to die, golds and oranges overtaking once-lush foliage—Kakashi always remembered. 

September fifteenths found him in the field, as on any other day. Anniversaries and birthdays and death days meant nothing. There were no dates on the memorial stone.

On September fifteenths, he looked down at his ration bars, the ones that were tasteless like cardboard. He looked down at his soldier pills, a sickening slurry of caffeine, calories, and stimulants.

One time, he looked down at his plate and saw a homemade meal. It was luscious fruits, with honey and sausages and sweet bread. It was lovingly crafted by someone who wouldn’t live out the day. 

Kakashi’s stomach expelled it not ten feet from their inanimate body.

He didn’t cook, for himself or anyone else. 

There was no one to eat it. 

Oh, he found people that he wanted to protect—but they were his subordinates, people who trusted him because someone of a higher rank ordered it. They trusted Kakashi as a soldier, a weapon.

There were others that trusted Hatake Kakashi, the man—Guy, Asuma, Tenzou—but Kakashi didn’t ask for their trust, didn’t want it. 

Anyone who trusted him was another person he could fail.

* * *

Kakashi’s twenty-third birthday came only days after being dismissed from ANBU. He opened his fridge and stared at the empty innards, hollow as his stomach. He kicked it shut and walked out the door. 

Later, he wouldn’t remember buying groceries. The marketplace was unfamiliar to him; his attention was consumed by analyzing potential threats, avoiding the milling crowd, and sneaking past the few that might have reason to call out to him. 

It wasn’t until he made it back to his apartment, the place that he would never recognize as a home, that he took conscious stock of what he had bought. 

Eggplant. Miso. Saury. Ground pork. Carrots, cayenne, and cabbage. There wasn’t a single grain of sugar in his dwelling, and he hadn’t bought ube. 

It didn’t seem right; he didn’t deserve that much.

Kakashi reached into the fractures of his mind, pulling Kushina’s words out from the fissures in which they had hidden for nearly ten years. They hadn’t been captured by the sharingan—because he had been hiding it that day along with the rest of himself, as he always did—but he could remember each one. Every explanation. Every direction. He could remember the way that her voice rose and fell on the syllables, the “you know?” that she tried not to include every other sentence. He remembered the way her voice grew raspy towards the end, after spending a full two hours teaching someone when she had no clue if they were listening, much less cared. 

Or maybe she had known. Minato had always seen more than Kakashi ever could.

He ran through the steps to each dish with the precision that had allowed him to develop his own A-rank jutsu at the tender age of twelve. He chopped eggplant with the attention to detail necessary to slip a senbon into a human’s brain stem. He added enough spice that Minato’s ears would have turned red as Kushina’s hair. He waited until the soup was nearly done to add the browned vegetables. 

He made too much. By the end of two hours, he had enough food to feed a soldier, a leader, a mother, and an unborn infant.

But there was only one of those things here.

Kakashi ate in silence. He let his mask pool under his chin this time. He wasn’t trying to hide; Minato and Kushina had known all of his sins and they had still trusted him despite… as he should have trusted them.

Nausea bubbled in his gut, but he ate until his stomach was fit to burst. He filled it with rich foods he hadn’t seen the like of in nine years. He swallowed hardy soup and salty fish, layering them atop years of rations and pills and foods of the dead. 

These were also foods of the dead, but somehow, they made Kakashi feel more alive than he had since Rin last called his name. 

When he had eaten all he could, Kakashi looked down at the rest and knew he should save it. Kushina would scold him for allowing food to go to waste. Minato would, as well. Rin. Obito too, but only as an excuse to scold him at all. 

It was too salty for his pack’s digestion, and the sun had already set.

Kakashi threw out the remains. He wanted to bury or burn them, show them the respect that Rin and Kushina and Minato’s bodies had had, the respect that Obito had been denied—but these were nothing more than a pale, ghostly replication. They didn’t deserve that honor. Not if Kakashi had made them.

He didn’t eat again for three days. 

* * *

For the next four years, Kakashi’s routine continued in the same manner. It wasn’t too difficult to ensure he was in Konoha on the fifteenth; it was a bit of luck, but predominantly intentional scheduling. It turned out that jōnin could actually choose whether or not to accept missions, as long as they weren’t given by the Hokage himself. Unlike ANBU, their lives weren’t controlled in every minute of every day. 

Kakashi almost wished they were. Then he would have an excuse to stop the self-destructive cycle. 

Nothing changed, though. Once a year, he cooked for no one but himself. Once a year, he stuffed himself until he could hold nothing more, until a single drop further would have caused it all to spill out of him, like all the words he had never said to all the people he had ever loved. 

Then he starved himself for as long as his body could bear before he was forced to concede to practicality, to the mission. 

A weapon couldn’t afford to break.

* * *

Kakashi was twenty-six and it was April when he met Uzumaki Naruto for the first time. Realistically, it was twelve years too late. Emotionally, it was a hundred years too early.

Within an hour, Kakashi was assaulted with the force of the realization that Naruto had not been raised in the manner Kakashi expected, believed, _trusted_ he would be. 

A person’s favorite food was chosen either for indulgence or comfort; if instant ramen was either, then Naruto had been starved. 

Kakashi didn’t think that he could be a jōnin-sensei. He didn’t think he was capable of protecting anyone, capable of being trusted with someone’s happiness, their life rather than their death. That was why he had never tried to be anything for Naruto. Once the boy was thrust into his face, however, Kakashi could no longer claim ignorance. 

He dropped baskets of fresh vegetables off at Naruto’s single-room, scant, peeling apartment. 

On the thirteenth anniversary of Kushina’s lesson, Kakashi divided the ceremonial meal. Along with the normal recipes, he crafted inceptive ube custard. 

He didn’t keep any of that for himself. He threw out the sugar that remained.

That night at sunset, he slipped three-quarters of it through Naruto’s cracked window, like an offering for a grave.

That was exactly what it was, and Kakashi hated himself for it.

For the entire nine months that he knew the boy, Kakashi did what little he could without taking on a responsibility that he would ultimately fail. 

But someone else had already taken on that responsibility for him. 

Umino Iruka was a chūnin and academy teacher. Kakashi had seen him in passing, but hadn’t noted anything more than a scar, a cute face, and strict standards.

That didn’t last for long. Along with Kakashi’s forced enlightenment came the recognition that Umino Iruka was a paragon of everything that Kakashi had wanted to be—everything that Kakashi had failed to be. 

While Kakashi had ignored Uzumaki Naruto’s existence, Iruka confirmed it. 

While Kakashi had allowed Naruto to starve, Iruka had fed him hot meals.

While Kakashi had failed to protect all those important to him, Iruka had taken a fuma shuriken to the spine to do so—and succeeded. 

Umino Iruka became a symbol of Kakashi’s failure, and one that wouldn’t go away. If it wasn’t Naruto going on about his former sensei during every single one of Team Seven’s missions, it was the respect in Sasuke’s tone. It was Iruka’s smile when Kakashi brought the kids into the mission room. It was that smile that could be directed towards _anyone_ the chūnin saw—Kakashi included. 

Soon enough, Iruka took notice of Kakashi as well, but he remained unenlightened to Kakashi’s inferiority. If he knew the truth, he wouldn’t have sought Kakashi out. He wouldn’t have asked about Team Seven. He wouldn’t have questioned what happened in recent missions, if Naruto was advancing, if he was getting along with his teammates, all as if Kakashi’s answers were truth incarnate. 

Umino Iruka was personable, friendly, trusting, conscientious, honest, and caring. 

Kakashi couldn’t hate him for it. Even after the chūnin exam showdown—even after Iruka brought to light all of their differences in one succinct, impassioned argument—Kakashi couldn’t hate him.

He tried. 

He tried, until Iruka was proven right. Until Orochimaru attacked. Until Iruka comforted the children at the Sandaime’s funeral. Until Sasuke defected and Iruka was the one there to pick up the jagged pieces of Naruto’s emotional wreckage. 

Kakashi tried to forget about Iruka for the next three years. 

* * *

Kakashi always failed when it mattered most.

* * *

Sometimes, Kakashi thought about Naruto’s meals with the man who was closest to being his family. 

(Iruka. Not Kakashi. Never Kakashi.) 

The thoughts built slowly. First, it was Kakashi imagining if he had been the one to offer all those meals, if he had been the one to take on that burden for his sensei’s son. 

He couldn’t imagine it. 

Kakashi had such difficulty speaking to people his _own_ age; he would have had nothing to tell Naruto. He wouldn’t have even been able to see the boy himself at first as anything but a loud, reverberating echo of Minato and Kushina. And while he _should_ have cared for Naruto solely for that, it wouldn’t have been what was best for Naruto. That was what Kakashi told himself, at least. It would have been Kakashi taking two ghosts out for a meal—not Uzumaki Naruto. 

Iruka would have seen the boy as he was from the start.

Once Kakashi arrived at this conclusion, he started to wonder what those meals would have been like from the perspective of the _seen_ rather than the _seer_ ; what if Kakashi had been in _Naruto’s_ place instead of Iruka’s?

He could imagine that more clearly. He could see those smiles being directed solely at him. He could imagine listening to Iruka talk about his students, imagine learning to see Uzumaki Naruto through Iruka’s warm brown eyes and fond tone. 

Iruka could be the camera through which Kakashi learned what humans were again. Perhaps Iruka would even want to. There were hints of that sometimes, in the gaze Kakashi felt on his skin.

None of those imaginings mattered. 

By the seventeenth anniversary of that meal, the entire world was being brought down to its knees by a man he had come to worship as a hero, and a friend. 

Obito became Kakashi's failure a second time.

This failure didn’t come alone, however. 

With it came forgiveness. 

* * *

On Kakashi’s thirty-first birthday, there was no eggplant in his fridge, no miso in his pantry, no fish waiting to be salted. He never bought those items until the day of, unwilling to see them sit in his fridge for any period of time. It seemed that this year, they would have to wait an extra day. 

The scheduling of every minute, the constant restrictions, the inane priorities set by others to which he was obliged to comply—these all reminded Kakashi of being in ANBU again, in the most depressing way he could imagine. Rather than being useful to the village by taking down threats and protecting his comrades in the field, Kakashi sat behind a desk and sent those less experienced than himself to the front lines, to do missions that he could have completed in half the time, even without the sharingan.

It was a good thing he didn’t need the sharingan to sign paperwork about genin uniform standards and a potential training camp in Suna. 

Orange light had long since bathed his office and left, finding no yellow hair to reflect on, no golden leaves to capture its rays. He could feel no wind through the cold glass panes that separated him from those he supposedly protected. Dust motes floated listlessly in stagnant air. 

Kakashi’s hand cramped from holding his pen too long.

Kunai were easier to wield.

The scratch of Kakashi’s pen drew ink rather than vital fluids, but it bled just the same. Kakashi set it down when his vision began to blur, raising gloved hands to rub at his eyes. Having two functioning ones again should have made his job easier, now that he was reading (and more than just erotic novels he had long-since memorized to the letter) rather than fighting. His chakra was higher than it had been in twenty years. There was no longer a constant drain on his life force, no longer an imbalance in his depth perception to correct, no longer the burden of being a dead man’s way to see the world—at least not in the most literal sense. 

Yet Kakashi felt weaker now than he ever had. 

Hokage tower had been silent for almost two hours when the floorboards outside his office creaked. No lights shone through the crack under his door. Kakashi stood before he made a conscious decision to rise. Adrenaline shot through him, anticipation and a trickle of excitement swirling in his stomach at the idea of a potential enemy—something to fight, something worthwhile—

—it all evaporated at the sight of Umino Iruka.

Shadows darkened his scar and stray hairs flew from his ponytail. His hitai-ate was a touch crooked, and there was an ink stain on one of the pockets of his vest. It was a school night. 

Only a step inside, Iruka’s eyes widened and flickered up, breath catching and shoulders squaring.

“Hokage-sama.” Iruka rocked back on his heels, as if fighting the sudden urge to flee. Perhaps it was the tension in Kakashi’s stance. Luckily, his fingers had already migrated away from the thigh holster that he still wore beneath the scratchy Hokage’s robes. The Rokudaime’s hat sat haphazardly on a mound of scrolls stacked upon a filing cabinet. It was too heavy to wear for long.

He remembered Minato’s robes looking softer, his hat lighter, the light from his desk lamp warmer. There had been a framed photograph of Kushina on the desk, and a small porcelain pen-holder shaped like a bull.

Those were some sort of inside joke between the two of them. Just another one that Kakashi never understood, and never bothered to ask.

Iruka bent forward in a half-bow. “Uh, I didn’t expect anyone to be here this late. Sorry to interrupt you.”

“Just Kakashi.” He corrected. Iruka opened his mouth, but Kakashi didn’t want to hear the complaints about propriety that were likely to form, so he continued. “What brings you here this late, then?”

Iruka glanced down at his arms, at the thick stack of papers in them. He shifted his weight, averting his gaze and reaching up with his free hand to scratch nervously at his scar. “I was just going to leave some things here for you to look at in the morning. They’re not important, really.”

Kakashi would have believed Iruka if not for his ruffled state, and the slight flush that was beginning to stain tanned cheeks. 

The adrenaline that had surged through Kakashi’s system had no place to go. It congealed in his veins—impotent, useless. 

He held out a hand expectantly. Iruka hesitated a moment longer, but Kakashi’s arm and half-lidded stare didn’t waver. Eventually, the chūnin stepped forward. The stack of papers made its home on Kakashi’s desk, but another item was placed directly in Kakashi’s palm. 

At first, he barely noticed it for the brush of Iruka’s warm fingers against his. 

“I was just going to leave it on your desk.” Iruka mumbled, lifting his eyes to meet Kakashi’s. 

The light from his desk lamp looked warmer reflected off brown and golden irises.

It took a few moments before Kakashi looked down to match a visual to the cool glass he could feel under his thumb. 

The viscous remnants of adrenaline slid down, pooling thickly in his stomach.

“I know that the jōnin barracks were destroyed during Pain’s attack.” Iruka’s voice came soft, hushed in the near silence of the office. “I wasn’t sure if you had a copy, but… I thought you should, if you didn't.” 

Kakashi traced the smiling and sullen faces of Team Seven—of the children he had failed.

They had eventually found their own way, though, hadn’t they?

Iruka cleared his throat. “I guess it’s good you’re here, though. This way, it’s not late.” 

“‘Late’, sensei?” Kakashi absently brushed a tiny speck from Sasuke’s eye—the iris and pupil and sclera that had now all been conquered by purple. 

“I mean, if you got it tomorrow morning, it would have been.” Iruka clarified. “I wanted to do it on the fifteenth, but Konohamaru got into trouble and yesterday I kinda dropped the frame I was going to use, so...” He chuckled awkwardly.

It took long, sticky moments for Iruka’s laugh to abate from Kakashi’s ears, allowing his words to sink in behind it. Kakashi’s thumb froze over Naruto’s whiskered cheeks, and charcoal eyes rose to meet sorrel. 

He hadn’t realized how closely Iruka stood to him. Not indecently, but _intimately_ —as if they were friends, as if most people didn’t always back away the moment Kakashi gave them the opportunity.

As if Kakashi didn’t back away when they didn’t.

He didn’t do so now; his feet were too heavy to move.

“This is for my birthday?” Kakashi murmured roughly. His tongue and lips felt as though he had eaten twice Kushina’s appreciated level of spice: numb and tingly. 

Iruka’s lips gave an uncertain quirk. “I had to remove your file when you became Hokage. I saw the date then. I, uh, know birthdays aren’t important to most adults, but it—seemed as good a time as any, you know?”

No. Kakashi did not know.

Kushina would have. 

When Kakashi didn’t speak, Iruka’s courage seemed to give out. “I should go. Get some dinner.” He stepped back. Kakashi’s feet still wouldn’t move. “You should get home soon, too, Kakashi-sama. Taking a break won’t mean the end of the world.” Iruka paused and smiled wryly. “Not tonight, at least.” 

He turned towards the door. His ponytail swayed as if in an early-autumn breeze.

Kakashi’s face felt hot. The air felt cool. 

“Iruka-sensei.” 

Iruka paused, half-turning. The light from Kakashi’s desk lamp turned his skin to bronze. It wasn’t sunlight, but suddenly it felt warm regardless. 

Kakashi’s heart beat more quickly than when he anticipated a fight to the death; in some way, he still did. He swallowed. His numb lips parted. Somehow, he mustered enough air to speak, despite the too-small size of his lungs. 

“Would you like to get dinner with me?”

A second of silence, and then Iruka’s brows rose. The flush had never left, but Kakashi imagined it worsened, imagined it spreading out to Iruka’s ears. 

By all rights, Iruka’s response should have been momentous. It should have borne the gravity of all of the sins Kakashi had carried for twenty-five years. It was at seven years old that Kakashi had first blamed himself for a loved one’s death. It was far from the last time. 

Kakashi should have known better. 

Umino Iruka had never seen Minato’s son as a burden, after all. He was always better than Kakashi—always stronger.

The fight was never what took the most strength, nor ignoring the pain it caused; strength was setting the broken bones when it was done, even though it meant breaking them again. Strength was trusting others for support while the structure mended. Strength was recognizing when the fight was over in the first place.

Kakashi had never learned how.

“Sure.” Iruka’s smile seemed effortless. It rounded his cheeks and tilted the corners of his scar, creating a curve as gentle as his lips. He turned fully, taking a step back into the office, back to Kakashi. “Where would you like to go?”

Kakashi’s smile had always been sharp edges; the fabric of his mask kept it from cutting those that drew too close. 

With sweaty palms, Kakashi carefully placed the picture frame on his desk, upright and facing his chair—where he would always see it. He had to combine a few stacks of paperwork to do it, and that would mean more time sorting them again in the morning. 

It was worth it. 

“The grocery store on the corner is still open, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, should be.” Iruka’s tone tilted up like his smile. Like the end of Kushina’s sentences when she forgot to monitor her language.

Kakashi shrugged the robe from his shoulders and draped it across the back of his chair. He looked around the office—at the disorganized piles of paperwork, the discarded ceremonial hat, the young and chubby faces of his students, the skyline of Konoha just outside the window. 

“Do you like ube, Iruka-sensei?”

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, once a year Kakashi binge-eats and then starves himself for several days. It is self-harm, so if that's something that you would feel uncomfortable reading, please do not continue. It is core enough to this fic that I don't feel I can give precise spots to skip. It is something he only does once a year, so you're not going to see many of the physical side-effects of eating disorders mentioned here, and there is **no** body dysmorphia, but this could still be very distressing to read. Please use your best judgement on proceeding. <3


End file.
